


Flash Fusions

by igrab



Category: Blue Beetle (Comics), Booster Gold (Comics), DCU, Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Fullmetal Alchemist, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Kingdom Hearts, Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:39:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrab/pseuds/igrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of short ficlets full of insane crossovers, fusions, and AUs. many are due to random AU games, where the setting or fusion is chosen at random, so some of these are very... well. random. others make more sense. (no they don't.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> if you leave a comment with a pairing/character and a number from 1-25, i can keep adding to the pile! fandoms i am willing to write for are [here](http://igrab.livejournal.com/449491.html).

1\. Table of Contents (you are here)  
2\. An Endless Succession [BBC Sherlock + Fullmetal Alchemist • Jim/Sebastian, Sherlock/John]  
3\. Self-Fulfilling Prophecies [Harry Potter + Merlin • Harry/Luna]  
4\. Into the Blue [Blue Beetle/DCU + Dragonriders of Pern • Jaime/Traci, Ted/Michael]  
5\. House Colors [Kingdom Hearts + Harry Potter • Braig/Even] 


	2. An Endless Succession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BBC Sherlock in the Fullmetal Alchemist universe.

He knew the man who stalked into his classroom because you would have had to be socially blind not to know him. The world was kept entertained by the stories of the Deductive Alchemist and his brother - ostensibly part of the military but operating a level above, making the wolves look like dogs and the dogs like puppies. They were _famous_.

That's not why Professor Moriarty knew of him.

"You know, I don't understand why you're a teacher," Sherlock Holmes began _in medias res_ , and Jim appreciated his blunt force, indelicate, but effective. 

"What can I say," he drawled, "I love imparting knowledge to impressionable young minds."

"You misunderstand me. What I don't _understand_ is how they _allow_ you near their precious children at all."

Jim inspected his fingernails, oh this _was_ turning out to be a fun day. "I'd love to impress you with my credentials, Alchemist." It was a herculean feat, worthy of trophies and named etched in bronze, that he didn't actually draw out the innuendo. But then, he knew Sherlock, knew he'd pick it up. He was _good_.

The man stepped closer, attempting to use his height as an intimidation factor, and also so he could keep his voice down. Instinct for self-preservation? A touch of goodheartedness? Insurance in case he was wrong?

Jim knew it was none of that. _Selfish_ , he thought, _so selfish of you, Sherlock. As if I'd give the information up on a silver platter - as if I'd tell anything to the likes of you._

"I've heard rumors," he whispered. "Whispers on the wind and do you know where they all lead? Right. Back. Here."

Jim's eyes said, _You're a fantastic bullshitter, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt._ "How flattering. And what do these rumors tell you?"

He knew, of course. The second the Holmes brothers had shown up in Central he'd known what they were after, known the looks of desperation and despair in their eyes. They'd _lost_ something. They'd do _anything_ to get it back.

Sherlock's hands clenched, black leather against the white and gray of child-drawn arrays. His shoulders hunched, in that ever-present coat with its stark symbology, and Jim could have laughed at the cruel irony of it. His voice, when he spoke, was _wrecked_.

"They say you created a Philosopher's Stone."

+

Colonel Watson looked up as Sherlock stormed into his office - without leave, as usual - and threw down a collection of badly-scrawled notes on five-lined music paper. He collected them into a careful pile. Mycroft would soon be by with a typed, perfect, anally detailed report of their findings, but he likes Sherlock's ridiculous scrawl and even more, he liked his brilliant observations about things that had nothing to do with anything at all. He'd spent an entire three pages on cloud formations, once, and John had barely glanced at Mycroft's reports but spent hours marveling at the beauty of the younger Holmes's brain. His notes were something to treasured, a piece of him that John wanted, badly, especially when Donovan was standing over his shoulder ( _Fuck off, are you mooning about again? You'll never become Fuhrer like this!_ ) or Lestrade was showing off pictures of his daughter, or - or any time, really.

Sherlock's face was agitated, his hands grasping and expressive. He didn't say anything, though, just felt the need to inspect every object on John's desk, like he hadn't done so a hundred times before.

"I'm guessing that was a bust, then," he ventured.

"Damn it all!" Sherlock flung the paperweight down in exasperation, just barely missing John's fingers. "He has it, I _know_ he does, and he knows I know but there's no _proof_ and he won't tell me a damn thing!"

"Well," John said slowly, "I could have told you barging in maybe wasn't the best idea, but - "

"You _could have_ , yes, but did you? _No._ "

John frowned. "Would you have listened?" he snapped back.

Sherlock got a very pained look on his face, because he knew that John was right.

John sighed. "Look, take a few days off. Go to, um... the theater." He'd heard that's what normal people did. He hadn't any idea what it felt like. "Take someone. That girl from the morgue, she likes you."

Sherlock snorted loudly. "Molly? Don't be daft. I would break her."

John shifted uncomfortably at _that_ implication, though he really didn't think Sherlock meant it quite how it came out. "All... right then. Look, I don't care. Take time off. Relax. _Have fun_. You do know what that means, don't you?" He peered curiously across the desk.

Sherlock huffed. "Of course."

John waited.

"....Hypothetically."

He sighed. "Well, make it a question of practical knowledge, whatever you need to do." 

He was being very insistent on this 'free time' business, and finally, _finally_ Sherlock caught on to John's plan. For a smart man, he could be incredibly dense at times.

"...And you'll call with the address the second you find it?"

John smiled, albeit a bit wearily. "The very second."

+

Jim had a routine when he came home. Go here, do this, it was all so ingrained that he didn't think about it anymore, and there were times when he'd actually had the foyers of his houses rebuilt simply to accommodate these specific spatial requirements. 

Last of these, however, required a bit more thought - find Sebastian and kiss the living daylights out of him. Four hundred years, and it hadn't gotten any less perfect, any less exciting. Body after body after body and they were still _them_ , still Moriarty and Moran and bound together tighter than fate.

No sign of him on the ground floor. Odd. He took the stairs two at a time, gritting his teeth against the way his body cried out, the flaky dead bits under his perfect suit shaking from abuse. Just a little longer. Sherlock was interested now, he was hooked, and soon he'd begin to make mistakes. They'd seen it before. They'd lay the trap and he'd come, and once they had him, his precious John wouldn't be far behind. They were pathetically easy to predict.

400 years. An endless succession, as eternal as the sunrise. Sherlock after Sherlock. John after John. 

So easy, so perfect, the way their new incarnations would always fit together like they'd been made for it.

And time after time, Jim and Sebastian would fit their souls inside, move into their bodies like changing house, and they always fit _so_ perfectly. Round and round and round. And they would all live forever in each other.

+

Sebastian wasn't home.

No, this was wrong. Sebastian was _always_ home. That is to say, he wasn't always but his routine was as cemented as Jim's was, it was six pm and Sebastian was _always_ home. He wanted to scream, he wanted to kill something. He settled for slapping his hands together and slamming them to the ground, turning their bed into a million shards of glass.

No, this was wrong. He had to think, that's what he _did_. There was really only one reason why Sebastian wouldn't be home, and for the first time in - a very long, long time - Jim felt a trickling tendril of fear.

Because, you see, playing with Sherlock - it was always a little like playing with fire. He'd come out on top so far, but that was the best part of it - he didn't _know_.

They'd messed with the wrong part of his life.

Anything, he thought, anything but Sebastian. Blow up his house. Kill his chimeras. Turn his internal organs to sludge (though they were admittedly already heading in that direction). Anything, any part of his four hundred years of life, but for all the gods that were ever believed in, _not him_.

Jim slipped the Stone into his pocket, and set out. One way or another, they would finish this.


	3. Self-Fulfilling Prophecies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter in the Merlin universe

It wasn't hard to be the Lord and Lady Dursley's serving boy. What was _hard_ , he thought, was keeping the _magic_ contained. They told him often enough how _grateful_ he should be, that they were shielding him from Uther's wrath - and he was, truly. But they didn't understand how it liked to jump out of him sometimes, and they didn't understand that he needed training. He didn't either, really, until he met Hagrid who Wasn't A Magician (but could at least teach him what he needed to know) and Hagrid talked about the greatest magician who ever lived, whom Uther had burned.

He first met _her_ in the street market, and he was startled because he had a fairly good knowledge of the people and shop owners and he'd never seen her or her father before. He would have remember. Oh, we would have remembered. Well, anyone could have remembered the patchwork jester's clothing she wore, or the way she jingled with every step, or the strange dead things hanging from a circle around her neck. He would have remembered her cornsilk blonde hair, and her bright, penetrating eyes, and the infectious nature of her smile.

"Penny for a prophecy?" she said, leaning excitedly over the counter, which was spread with all manner of utterly ridiculous objects that surely had no purpose. He tore his eyes away from the shell of a creature that seemed to be made completely of spikes (when his eyes had danced away from her face, aware he was staring) and looked back up. 

"You do know this is Camelot," he said, hefting his bag a little higher. "Magic will get you killed."

The grin that spread over her face was secret, and knowing, and just for him. It made his insides do cartwheels. "That's why I don't ask just anyone."

She knew. Somehow, she could see him, see right through him, and she _knew_ , but maybe it wasn't a bad thing because she was offering prophecies? Did that mean she had magic, as well?

She crooked her hands at him and he went, stumbling, until she could whisper in his ear. "I predict you'll meet me at the fallen log, in the woods, just after midnight. I say just after because I'm a little absent-minded and I'll probably be late." He was grinning, he knew he was, he couldn't help himself.

"Not a very big prophecy," he said.

"It's self-fulfilling. Those are the best kind." She grinned a grin of hidden sparkle, peeking out from the surface. "And not a word to anyone, young man. We're herbalists and explorers. Nothing magical about that." But she tapped the side of her nose, and it was all the confirmation he needed.

He nodded once, quickly. He would be there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blue Beetle (and a bit of Booster Gold of course) in the Dragonriders of Pern universe

Jaime - sorry, J'me (the new name was going to take some getting used to; he wasn't from a Dragonrider family, so he wasn't exactly expecting to have it shortened) realized very quickly on that his dragon was not a normal one.

He was on the small end of the blues; his friend and patron, T'kord, flew the largest, a beautiful dragon named Betelth. J'me had learned a lot from the both of them. He should have known that his would be a dud.

He especially should have known when, outside of all usual dragon naming convention, it had announced that its name was Scarab.

Scarab was finicky. Scarab was needy. Scarab was vicious and bloodthirsty, and it was only out of love for J'me that it didn't kill everyone in sight, or so it seemed at times. He was frustratingly smug little shit, and J'me loved every inch of him.

The Weyr he belonged to was famous for having more gold dragons than it did greens; one of these was a sterile fighting queen by the name of Skeeth, flown by M'cheal. J'me hadn't liked him (back when he'd still gone by Jaime) right up until he'd kissed T'kord on the cheek, and that was it. The end. Jaime would learn to like him. If T'kord, the most caring and wonderful person on the planet, could love him, then Jaime would find a way.

J'me. His name was J'me now.

Scarab butted him in the back of the head. _You're thinking about Them again_ , he informed in his prissy little voice. J'me rolled his eyes and leaned against his warm, bright blue hide.

"I was just thinking that they're lucky," he murmured. "To find a partner that completes them like that." Scarab was almost old enough to mate; you bet his butt J'me was worried.

The dragon could read his thoughts, and snorted lightly. _Oh, I won't fly a mate. The other dragons don't interest me._

"Uh _huh_ ," he said, but inwardly he was relieved. If Scarab could be weird enough to dodge that arrow, it would be worth all the times he'd almost ripped someone apart. "All right, then. We'll see."

Of course, neither dragon nor rider counted on a visiting green and her surprisingly female rider at the next mating flight. Scarab fell head over heels for Thirteenth, and J'me, well. Let's just say he wasn't exactly complaining about Traci.


	5. House Colors

They were the polar opposites of the Ravenclaw House. Even decided this, right after he'd decided that Braig was a _twat_ and that this year, like all the other years, was going to be spent holed up in a corner of the library with his nose in his book until his proclaimed arch-nemesis (Braig's proclamation, not his) gave up and left him alone.

Even didn't even understand why Braig had been sorted into Ravenclaw at all. He passed all his classes, at least, but more than once Even had caught sight of Braig leaning over his best friend Dilan's chair and begging to let him copy his homework. Dilan must be sympathetic, somewhere in there, or Braig probably would've failed out already. So Even thought.

It's the sixth year and it's supposed to be better, having less classes with more content and he'd assumed, incorrectly as it turned out, that he would still be classed in his age range. Surely the seventh-year NEWT students had different things to learn?

Apparently not. Braig was in his NEWT-level astronomy class. 

Thus, the realization that this year would be _hell_ , and all in the first five seconds of walking into the classroom.

Because after those five seconds, Braig saw him, and his face lit up (in _glee_ , he's sadistic, this was going to be awful) and he bounded over. "Even!"

Even's face shut off like a door slamming shut. "What."

"Thank god you're here."

So you can copy _my_ notes, too?

"Finally, there's going to be someone _intelligent_ in the class."

Wait. What?

If he saw the dazed look on Even's face, Braig didn't comment, just flashed another grin and grabbed the books out of Even's hands (like he was trying to be helpful - or - or maybe - maybe he _was_ trying to be helpful) and towed him over to a pair of desks by the window. "Here, sit here. You can see the board and when the Professor's being dull, which is, you know, always, you can stare out the window."

Even fell into his seat and felt a little bit like his entire world had been turned on its axis.

"It moves pretty slow for a NEWT class, but it's better than Charms, god, I wanted to shoot myself. So _easy_."

Oh yes, he thought faintly. This year was going to be hell. He was going to have to re-learn everything he'd ever taken for granted, it was going to be so different but maybe, if he let himself believe, it might turn out to be wonderful.

+

Braig leaned over the back of Dilan's chair. "Dilaaan," he whined. "Let me copy your homework."

Dilan snorted loudly. "Right. That's a no."

"Come on, you're almost done!"

"And have me destroy your bloody perfect track record?" He rolled his eyes at his best friend, who danced around to perch on the arm of the chair. "I'm not that stupid, I'd have to put up with your bitching."

"It's too much effort to do it myself." But he was looking down at Dilan's careful notations, his eyes quick and calculating as always. "You dropped a decimal, there."

"Fuck off!"

"If you let me copy your homework I promise I'll fix all your stupid mistakes!"

"Get out!" Dilan whacked Braig's shoulder with the textbook, and Braig laughed. He loved his friend, truly he did, but there was a time and a place to be a know-it-all and this wasn't one of them. "Go bother someone else. Or _do the homework yourself_."

"Thinking about it," he said, but his eyes were faraway - he was staring up at the boys' staircase, and Dilan knew what that meant. He wasn't thinking about his homework at all.


End file.
